Now What?
by RefRobin
Summary: Life's always throwing up difficult situations. It's easier to get through if you have someone to guide you through, though. So, now what? Depends on if you're traveling through time, getting intimate, or dealing with a world going to the dogs.


_**For my sister, Laney, who has spent probably 5 years telling me I shouldn't have stopped watching LOST in early season 3. This is my apology. Laney, you were right.**_

_**I don't own any of the characters, of course. **_

**1974**

"So, now what?" she asks, as the submarine sinks below the surface.

He runs a hand over his head. "Dunno, Blondie. Wait for Danny Boy to snap out of it, I guess?"

"And if he doesn't?"

"Why wouldn't he." It's a statement, not a question. Because if James wishes it hard enough, it will be so. Because Sawyer's heart is too hard.

She turns away from the now-smooth surface of the water to look at him. "He had her blood on his clothes. He sat with her while she died. So if you think he's just going to 'get over it,' maybe you should consider joining the human race. That's not how it happens."

He scoffs. "Miles said them two just met. Barely knew each other. Miles also says Dan's always been a nutcase. So, I don't think he's got too far to go. Until then, we keep our heads down. Fit in. They got running water here and booze and electricity." _Plus a handful of girls who look like they'll be easy lays._ He leaves that part out. He shrugs. "What's out there so great you gotta get back to anyway? You really think Mr. Burke's been back home pinin' away for you for the past three years?"

"He was _Doctor_ Burke, and no. He's not pining away for anything. He was run over by a bus and killed."

"Ah, shit. Shit. Sorry. I . . . Jesus, I . . . I shouldn't of said nothing. I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

Sawyer's eyes go wide, his eyebrows reaching his hairline. "Shit, Blondie. That is _cold_."

"Oh, I guess I don't mean that. No one deserves that. He was a terrible boss and an even worse husband. One of these days you can get a bunch of that booze you're so fond of in me and I'll be happy to fill you in on all his extramarital romantic exploits. At least all the ones I know about."

"No shit?"

"No shit." She turns to leave the dock. She stops and turns to him. "I have a sister and a nephew. That's who I want to get back to."

"Hey," he says, "Don't worry. Dan or Locke. One of them two goofy bastards'll figure something out."

She walks away. He calls after her, "Thanks for stayin'."

**1975**

"So, now what?" she asks, nervous fingers scrabbling at her shirt buttons.

He grins back at her from the bed. "For starters, ya missed a button right there." He points at the third button down, right over her breasts. _Great._

She heaves a great, exasperated sigh. "I'm serious."

"All righty, then. How 'bout for starters, you give me thirty minutes recovery time, then we do that again."

She stops fumbling with her buttons long enough to put her face down in her palm. "This was a huge mistake," she mumbles. "I . . . God, what was I _thinking_? Maybe we just pretend it didn't happen?" She stands up, yet another in a long line of mistakes, given that she's not wearing anything beneath the waist.

"Whoa. Hold on just a sec, now," he reaches out to grab her wrist. "Look. I dunno what you want me to say. 'Now what?' Hell, you think I know the answer to that question? I wanna do _that_ again, that's all I know."

_So do I_, she thinks but doesn't say. In her hesitation, he pulls her down beside him. He puts one hand on her bare thigh, while the other fumbles at the button she missed, in its inopportune location. Or opportune, she sighs, as two fingers slip inside the shirt.

"I like bein' with ya. And I mean that in the normal way, but, dang, as it turns out, I mean it in the sexual way, too." He's managed to widen the gap in her shirt, and has pretty much his whole hand in there now, and how is she supposed to _think_? "I don't wanna screw nothin' up, 'cause this is like the first adult, honest real relationship I ever had before. You're important to me."

She leans into his palm, but still manages to give voice to her misgivings. "How do I know you're not just saying that? How do I know you aren't running some kind of con on me?"

He looks down, chastened. "I slept with those women for money, Juliet. I ain't proud of it, but it's what I did. How much, exactly, they payin' ya down at the motor pool these days?"

"Not much," she admits.

"Care to tell me what I'd possibly be tryin' to con ya out of?"

"Point taken," she admits.

"No, seriously," he says. "'Cause if there's somethin' more in it for me that amazing sex and pretty awesome companionship . . ."

"You should probably stop talking," she says, unbuttoning the rest of her shirt for him. This is probably (maybe) a mistake. Or maybe not. Maybe not.

**1976**

"So, now what?" he asks, reaching out to take both her hands in his.

She pulls back, though, and uses one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. She leans back in her chair, the creaky one at the end of the dining room table. He puts his hands on the table and waits. "I shouldn't have said anything," she says. "I should have waited until I knew for sure."

"Hey," he says softly. He reaches out his hands for hers again, having to pull one off her face. "I'm glad you did. This involves me, too, you know." She nods, but won't meet his eyes. "So," he shrugs, "what now?" The stupid question he asked only two seconds ago. "I mean, like, when do we know for sure?"

"I guess if nothing happens by Friday, I can take a test," she says, taking her hands back and putting them in her lap.

"They got those tests here? Or, now, I mean?"

"They can do a blood test. I think the turnaround time's like twelve hours. I can do it Friday morning, and we can know by the weekend."

"All right then," he declares. "All right. So we wait."

She nods, her brow all knitted up. She's nervously chewing on her lower lip, nervously running her palms over her thighs.

He puts his hands over hers, stilling them. "It'll be all right," he affirms. "I mean, think about it. Even if it _is_ true, would it really be the worst thing in the world?" Those words echo from somewhere.

"It's 1976," she patiently explains. "And this island, I . . ."

"Screw all that nonsense. We can take the first sub back to the US if you want. I mean, I dunno . . . I guess . . . it could even be kind of fun."

"Really?" she asks, seeming hopeful for the first time since this conversation began. "You really believe that? You aren't just selling me a line?"

He lets go of her hands, runs them over the back of the head. "OK. Honestly?" Yeah, of course, honestly. He ain't never lied to her, and doesn't plan to start now. "Honestly, my heart's about to hammer outta my chest, and I'm sittin' here hopin' it ain't true. Like, don't stress cause that sometimes? And ain't they been workin' you guys like dogs over there since those new vans got in?"

She nods.

"Well, anyway, that's what I hope this all is. But if it isn't?" He shrugs. "Then, yeah. Yeah. That'll be OK, too."

"Really?" she asks again, even more hope in her face than before.

"Really. And if we dodge the bullet this time? Which, like I said, I'm hopin' is the case. If we do . . . then maybe this is somethin' we need to talk about. 'Cause I ain't remotely prepared for it. But thinkin' about it now? Hell, maybe I could be. Maybe I could be."

**1977**

"So, now what?" he asks, pulling the ends tight, staring up at her, desperately needing some direction.

"You're asking me?" she spits. "I'm not the one who punched him. Maybe you should have thought about your next step before you coldcocked him."

"I wasn't thinkin', all right?" he practically barks at her. He takes a deep breath. OK. No sense taking all this out on her.

She crouches down. She puts her fingers on Phil's neck, taking his pulse, James supposes. "OK," she says, nodding as though agreeing with her own thoughts. She says, "OK. Gag him and put him in the hall closet."

He wants to make some Others joke, something about that training kicking in, but wisely keeps his mouth shut. He gags Phil, then drags him to the hall closet.

Juliet is still in the kitchen when he gets back. She's got instructions for him. "Tomorrow morning, we get everyone together. Unless you want to get rid of Phil, the gig's up, OK? It's_ over_. So, the way I see it, we either try to commandeer the sub, or we pack up and head back to the beach. We give everyone a chance to weigh in."

"You think that's a great idea? Havin' all them over? You heard the Doc. Fuckin' Kate's given up the game. To Roger Linus, of all people. Besides, you ever thought this is what we been waitin' on? Maybe we're a little too comfortable. We been waitin' on them for over three years. So now they're here, and maybe we get ourselves back to the right time. Still be here, but at least we'll be in the right year, ya know?"

"Well their timing couldn't be worse," she states.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Who cares when they got here? They're here. Let's take advantage of it. What's so bad about their timing?"

She rubs her face with her palm then hooks her fingers in the belt loops of her jeans. She scuffles her feet, rubs her face with her palm again. "This is not at all how I planned to tell you. But I guess . . . I mean . . . you should probably know . . . I . . ."

WHAM WHAM WHAM. From the direction of the hall closet. "Our houseguest is coming to," James observes. "Keep it down, Punxatawney!" he yells

"Mmmmmph! Hmmmmmph!"

"Shit. Hold that thought. Lemme go take care of him."

James heads back down the hall. He slides open the closet door. He looks down at Phil, trussed and tied up like a Christmas turkey. "Now listen here, Phil. You just keep tight, OK? We'll be outta your hair before you know it. We ain't gonna do nothin' more to ya, as long as you sit right there nice and quiet." He kneels down to face Phil directly. "But if you don't keep nice and quiet? Well, you're gonna find out that punch you took ain't even in my varsity repertoire, got it? Shit, play your cards right, and maybe you get that promotion to Head of Security you always been anglin' for."

Phil's eyes widen, and he shakes his head. "Mmph dmph." His eyes plead.

He's a goddamn uptight pain in the ass prick, but he's a colleague – or was. Maybe James can talk him into something. Maybe there's a way out of all this. He reaches behind Phil's neck to loosen the gag. "What's that, Gonzo?" he asks.

"I knew she was bad news from the moment I saw her. Who is she, LaFleur? Who's the girl?" Phil's eyes shimmer with victory. He's wanted James's job for over two years. He sees his opportunity.

James immediately reworks the gag. "Who is she?" Phil gets in one last time before he's silenced.

"Night, night, Phil." James slams the closet door shut.

"Oooo sssss shhheee?" Phil struggles against his gag.

WHO IS SHE? She's fucking Kate is who she is. She's Kate, and I love (d?) her. Damn it. Loved her like you are supposed to. Not selfish. I jumped out of that freakin' helicopter because I loved her. Because me and her wouldn't have worked out, and I wanted her to get a chance at life. I wanted to give her that gift. I _did _give her that gift. I didn't give a shit about what happened to me. Died in the fall? Drowned? Left behind on this damn rock? Didn't give two shits. I wanted her to have a life. I _gave_ her that.

She's back now. Because the life he allowed her to have didn't work out? Because it wasn't good enough for her? What? Why the fuck? He gave it to her, and now she's _giving it back_? Well SCREW HER, DAMMIT. Sorry, Freckles. Sorry you couldn't work things out, but _I did_, and if you think you jackasses are gonna come back and mess with my life? You had your chance. _Stop fucking with mine._

"Everything OK?" Juliet's waiting, expectantly, in the kitchen.

James realizes he's been grumbling under his breath. He attempts to explain. "Fuckin' Kate. I tell ya what, that woman can get under my skin faster'n anybody I ever met."

Juliet nods and takes a deep breath. She immediately turns away from him and starts scrubbing out coffee cups at the sink.

"So, Phil's awake, but tied up good."

She keeps scrubbing. She won't look at him.

"Anyway. What were you sayin' before?"

"It's not important," she mumbles.

"Sure. Sure it is. It seemed important. Look, we need all our facts straight before we go off halfcocked making decisions. So, what?"

She stops scrubbing, but still won't look at him. She's standing still, staring out the window. "I'm . . .I . . . I . . ."

He's hanging on every word. Out with it, dammit, we don't got all the time in the world.

"I saw a sub manifest today. Radzinsky's got a secret drop off tonight. A bunch of his team. Daniel's name's on the manifest."

"That's all?" James scoffs. "His name's been on at least three of them manifests over the past year. Yet he never seems to show up."

"Well, I thought you should know."

"All right. Guess you were right. It's nothin'."

"Right," she bites out. "Nothing." She goes back to scrubbing the mugs.

He used to make his living reading women, and he's missing all the signs. He'll pay for it.

**2008**

"So, now what?" Miles whispers, staring balefully at the Oceanic reps huddled at the front of the room.

"Hell if I know," James grunts.

He supposes that first, he needs to adjust to this air. This fake, too-cold, too-dry artificial air. Get used to that, and then to all the activity and the phones and the monitors and the blinking lights everywhere. Get used to life in the present. Then what? Hell if I know.

Drown himself in a bottle of tequila? Track down Rachel? Eat the barrel of a 45 pistol? Show up at Cassidy's?

He settles for all and none of the above. He drowns himself in booze for a week or so, until Miles declares that's enough. He lets Miles tell him what to do for a while. Wake up, get dressed, run errands, eat three meals a day, drink (but not too much), go to sleep. Miles tells him everything, and he does all he's told.

When he feels up to it, he attempts to settle things with Cassidy. It doesn't work. He tries the hard sell and he tries the soft sell and he tries the "miraculous plane crash survivor" sell. He gets Kate to try the hard sell and the soft sell and the "miraculous plane crash survivor" sell. Cassidy isn't buying. So, he puts a huge chunk of his Oceanic payout in yet another trust for Clementine. Maybe one day he'll know her father cared.

When he realizes they are a lost cause he spends one night staring at the only things left in his miserable motel room: a room key, his takeout dinner, a loaded gun and a candy bar. He eats the candy bar, and for some reason that makes him think of poor doomed Dr. Wizard and how he used to murmur about Charlotte and chocolate and how James used to think the geek should just get over her already. What a stupid thing to think. He maybe drifts off to sleep because he's thinking about eating dinner with Charlotte (who looks so pretty in his dreams) and eating candy bars with Juliet. When he wakes up he decides not to use the gun.

He's learned the hard way about showing up at single mom's houses and trying to win them over. So, he does what he does best and cons Rachel Carlson. Cons her into taking most of the rest of his Oceanic settlement.

She's never heard of him? He feigns surprise. She didn't know? _Her_ father invested in _his_ father's medical supply company back in the early 80s. Yeah, well his father just died. Rachel clucks sadly and sympathetically (you don't know the half of it sweetheart). Anyway, he made a killing off the medical supply business and his will left the bulk of that investment to Thomas Carlson, or his living heir(s). "And that would be you," James announces.

He slides over the paperwork, the bank account, all the falsified documents.

If Rachel wants to look into this further, Fucking Richard and his Others minions have done James the great favor of ginning up some false documents, death certificates, obituaries, investment contracts. She doesn't need to look further. Not only because it's a great windfall, but also because James cons her into believing it's all true. How?

Because James says, "Oh, I remember your Dad. After he invested with us, he had dinner with us more than a few times." And he talks about how much Tom Carlson liked a bucketful of lemons in his iced tea. How after dinner Mr. C would sometimes play HORSE in the driveway, and always pretend to be Larry Bird. How they were surprised when Mr. Carlson showed up in a full-leg cast after a skiing accident.

And how else would James know any of this if he didn't actually know her dad? Rachel buys it all and agrees to take the money. Just in time, too, because James also reminisces about the clunker, wood-paneled Aspen station wagon Tom used to drive.

Then Rachel laughs and says, "Oh, I wish you could have heard my sister and the way she'd make fun of that old boat."

James gets a massive lump in his throat and feels the room close in around him. "Yeah, yeah." He gets up to go. She has all the information she needs anyway.

She, confused by his sudden change in demeanor, takes his hands, looks him in the eye, and says, "I'm so very sorry for your loss."

He can't help it. He feels the con collapsing around him. He sobs a few times, and she pats his back. How did she know? How did she figure it out? "It's so hard to lose a parent," she murmurs. Oh, right.

He feels the con building back up. He'll pull this one off just like every other con he's ever pulled off before, but he cries a little bit longer. He cries for his "dad," and lets her tut tut and shush him. It feels good to give away the money and it feels good to have someone comfort him. It feels absolutely incredible to mourn and sob like a baby. Like a human being.

He coasts on that for a while, years even, pretending he's a human being who's not hollowed out. He goes so far as to date a woman. He vacillates on whether he's ever going to take her to bed or not, letting Miles convince him it's totally OK: "It's been four years, man. You're human." James doesn't feel quite human, but he wants to believe Miles. Wants to believe it will be OK, maybe even good.

He also thinks, when he's got her in bed, that he can close his eyes and pretend. It doesn't work. Turns out he has four other senses, and she certainly doesn't sound right or smell right or taste right, and when the time comes for the actual deed, she absolutely doesn't feel right.

He keeps trying – every few years or so, Miles always telling him it's all right, he should go ahead, because "It's been eight years, man," "fifteen years, man" "sixteen," and she (whoever_ she _happens to be at the time) never sounds, smells, tastes, feels right. But he's starting to forget what 'right' did feel like. And then he's too old to really care anymore.

**1995**

"So, now what?" he asks the sergeant. Jim's new dress uniform seems too tight and his shoes pinch his feet. He gets the sense that _he_ doesn't fit, but he realizes, of course, it's just the new uniform.

"Now you go home, celebrate," Sergeant O'Toole claps him on the shoulder. "Your first real shift is Tuesday, 6 AM. Welcome to the force, Officer Ford."

This is all wrong, Sarge, he wants to say. This isn't right and it doesn't fit, and he can't quite figure out why. It's all wrong, but it's all good. It's good, and he may be lonely, but he's also proud. "Officer Ford." He stares down at the gleaming badge on his uniform. Not bad. Not bad at all.

**2004**

"So, now what?" they ask simultaneously. He can't let go of her hands. He won't let go of her hands. Never again, if he can help it. Still, he answers, "I . . . I think . . .I think we're supposed to go somewhere."

She won't let go of his hands. She doesn't want to seem clingy or desperate, but she can't let go. Besides, he seems to be clutching just as tight. "Go where?" she asks, because she thinks he's right.

"Dunno," he answers. A lot of this is hazy. Can they just up and leave? In his old life he would just up and leave. In his old life, he'd take her to the nearest utility closet and get properly reacquainted. In his new life, though, he has responsibilities to his city, to his lieutenant, to his partner . . . to. . . to . . .

He drops her hands so he can put his on top of his head. So he can prevent his head from exploding and his brain from flying out of the busted open skullcase. "Oh my god," he gasps. "Ohmygod. Oh . . ."

"What is it?" she asks, suddenly alarmed. "James? Are you OK?"

"Ohmygod, ohmygod. Miles. Miles. Whoa, Miles."

She leans in closer. She holds out her hands to him, but he still needs to keep them on his head.

"Miles is my partner. For nearly three years now. He . . . we . . . we've been through a lot of shit. Good and bad, both. And, you know the weird thing?" He looks up at her, to see if she's been following along. He supposes she is, looking at him with super-wide eyes, and a mouth slowly dropping open. "The weird thing is that I kept feeling these, like, flashes. Like him and me in a different life and . . . I always just chalked it up to stress or whatnot. Nothin' like what you and me just had. _Nothin'._ I always wrote it off. Can you believe it?"

She stumbles back a few steps. She puts a trembling hand to her mouth. Crap. He's gone too far, has he? Does she remember Miles? "I'm probably not makin' any sense."

"No, no," she says, and she puts a second, also trembling hand to her mouth. "It makes perfect sense."

"Weird, ain't it?"

She's stumbled backward into a chair, and she falls to sit in it so heavily that the chairs to either side shake. "I. . ." she says. "We . . . I . . . Jack . . ." she shakes her head and stares at the floor. She looks like she's trying to figure something out. "I. . . We were . . .I . . ." She stares at him. "I have a son," she finally says.

**Some unknowable time later. Long enough for them to get properly acquainted. For her to change. For him to finally put that ring on her finger.**

"So, now what?" Boone leans over to ask as soon as the light suffusing the sanctuary dissipates.

"Who cares?" James asks. Who cares. He has all he needs.

* * *

**_And if my sister is still reading (she better be), I realize that's not "dirty" like you wanted. I'm working up the nerve._ **


End file.
